A Christmas Song

 

A Christmas Gift

 

Christmas Day

 

Miracle Shirt

 

When the Winter Solstice arrived, the dusk of that darkening midwinter day found me stumbling at the foot of the stairs where ornate brass candlesticks are affixed on either post. I immediately realised with wet stickiness everywhere that I had been impaled. Blood oozed fast and furious. Sarah was on the verge of fainting. And who could blame her? My blue and green shirt quickly turned deep crimson.

Sarah nevertheless had the forethought to bundle me into the jeep and dash me to the local hospital where I was assessed in A & E. The ugly wound was irrigated with saline solution in the first instant, and I was eventually put together with many, many glue strips. The type of wound meant that stitches could not be employed. I was kept there for five hours, the overriding concern being infection which so far I have thankfully avoided. This morning I saw the GP practice nurse, and was told I am as yet  infection free. Even so, I had a tetanus jab. She redressed the six inch wound. I'll be back next week.

What saved me from a worse fate was my winceyette shirt. It remained unpierced, meaning that the brass candlestick cherub's arm was enfolded within the shirt 's material when it impaled me. I would have kept it as a blood-soaked relic, but it had been put in the washing machine by Sarah as soon we returned home from the hospital. We shall nevertheless hereafter call the item my miraculous shirt.

It happened to my right arm, the one I use; so I cannot write greetings and thank you notes. Sorry.

What larks, Pip, what larks!

 

This female bird was found preserved in permafrost in north-eastern Siberia.

The condition of its body was so good experts initially thought it a modern bird. 

Researchers used radiocarbon dating to determine how old the carcass is. 

It is believed that the horned lark died a non-violent death before being frozen.

Hallo Pascal

 

He stepped out of a darkening, out-of-focus sky redolent of the smoke of battles fought and lost.

His first almost shouted word was "Stalingrad!" The Walloons Division. He had been one of them.

"Hitler Jugend!" was another proudly announced declaration. He knew and admired them greatly.

He had been a sergeant. His rifle was always loaded. He had ridden the best of tanks. Hallo Pascal. 

I thought it curious that Pascal sported a ring on a finger of his right-hand which bore the flag of Great Britain. Fingers on his left-hand were bedecked in mostly heavy silver rings, plus one gold one. His clothes belonged to another era. As did he. He didn't have anything much to say about the English, save their 303 bolt-action rifles from WWI, still being used in WWII, were utterly useless. He wanted to reassure us that he had never actually shot anyone, but had stabbed a great many. With that assurance taken on board, we bade him farewell, but not before his insistence of bumping fists. It was best not to refuse Pascal his chosen style of adieu. "You owe me a drink!" was his parting remark. The Stalingrad-like sky started to descend again as Pascal dissolved into his darkening surroundings 

I had made a thirty minute film of our encounter from which these images are taken. I showed it to some friends. Keith listened to it down the 'phone, and said it sounded like static. Arthur did not respond at all, but that isn't unusual for Arthur. He doesn't respond to much he is sent. Laurie, on the other hand, was most vocal. "It sounds like the rant of an incoherent drunk," he proffered. I explained that Pascal carried just a bottle of water, adding that the Belgian could speak at least half a dozen languages fluently, three of them whilst in our company (English, French and German), had travelled the world, and had an education which only life could provide. Weighing up everything, I was obliged to entertain the possibility that it was some sort of time traveller we had bumped into on the cliff top.

Farewell Farrant